


A Matter of Faith

by Lunarium



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4564899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tar-Míriel learns just how deep her faith can go, even as the world around her crashes down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> Written for Sath who requested Tar-Míriel/OFC and a fix-it. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to explore this area of the legendarium! :) I highly enjoyed writing this! 
> 
> Thank you to my beta Heget!

The sounds of celebration, the laughter and the music, mockingly carried on about her, yet Tar-Míriel sat as a stone statue upon her throne with her hands rested palm-up on her knees, her fingers still curled as if around the sceptre of her father and his father which had just been forced out of her hands. She did not move, and the music dimmed in and out of focus just as the images before her blurred, her own inner and unspoken sorrow overpowering everything else. 

The sceptre had been in her possession for so short a time before she had been dragged by sword-point to the wedding altar by her own cousin Ar-Pharazôn, who now stood basking in the cheers and praises of his followers. 

“Do not weep, Ar-Zimraphel,” spoke a woman as she knelt before her. “There is no dark cloud that has never eventually parted to sunlight. This nightmare too will end.” 

“Would I believe that.” 

“Have faith, Ar-Zimraphel.” 

She studied the lady, the dark hair veiled by a long headdress, and the grey eyes which shown with a wisdom unfit for one of her age. 

“I reject the name of Ar-Zimraphel. I am Tar-Míriel, and that is the only name which I will answer to,” she said, but her words were not unkind to the woman, for they had just met, and Tar-Míriel was in want of any allegiance in this time of sorrow. 

The woman nodded with a smile. “I will obey, my queen Tar-Míriel. By the King’s Men I am known as Nilûphel, but my true name among my people is Isilriën. Here I walk in disguise, to offer words of wisdom or advice to any of the Faithful who need it.” 

“One of the Faithful,” Tar-Míriel said and returned the smile, knowing she had a friend here. 

“Yes. To Amandil are my loyalties,” Isilriën said, “and to you as well, if you wish to receive me as your lady-in-waiting.” 

“You have my greatest gratitude in coming to my service, Faithful woman,” Tar-Míriel said, and her fingers finally unclenched from their imaginary hold on the sceptre. Isilriën nodded. 

“Do not weep the absence of your father’s sceptre,” she said. “It is but made of wood, soulless within. Your soul is that which Ar-Pharazôn cannot claim, least you yield to him. But there is hope. Have faith, my queen.”

*

She saw little of Isilriën again for another fortnight. Their next meeting was as sudden as the first, while Tar-Míriel visited the ever-growing necropolis of Meneltarma. The tombs frightened her just as much as they frightened every other citizen of Númenor. A Faithful though she was, the thought of death and its inevitability still frightened her.

“My queen, is there anything you require?” 

Tar-Míriel gave a start, having not noticed Isilriën standing by the corner. 

“I come seeking some peace of mind,” she explained, turning her gaze to the names on the tombs. 

Isilriën nodded. “How has your husband been treating you?” 

“You need to ask?” 

Isilriën lowered her head. “My apologies, my queen.” 

Finding the name she was searching for, Tar-Míriel settled herself beside her father’s tomb. The raised golden casket contained a glass lid over the upper half, exposing the head and shoulders of the deceased. 

“Look at him,” Tar-Míriel said sadly. “You might thinking he is merely sleeping, and yet he bears no resemblance to my father. Over the years the Númenóreans have perfected the means to preserve the body after death, but their efforts are futile. I know my father is not in there. What they’ve done here, it is a cruel mockery of life!” 

Isilriën knelt next to her. “But who is to say the spirits do not come back to rest in their eternal beds and listen to their loved ones?” 

“Do you think that is how Ilúvatar designed our kin?” 

“Yes or no, I have no answer. But there is no harm in speculation, for it is all we may ever have.” Isilriën smiled at Tar-Míriel’s look. “Do you fear death, my queen?” 

“Aye…though in truth I do not know what it is I fear more: the thought of death or the thought of being dragged from one cage to another: the bonds of life to the eternal prison of death.” She turned back to her father’s body for another moment before casting her gaze aside. “Isilriën, hold me.” 

She buried her face in Isilriën’s shoulder so she may not see the tears that fell freely. Isilriën’s embrace was the warmth of moonlight on a cold night, its presence just there bringing a sense of hope to Tar-Míriel. 

“Do not despair,” Isilriën said. “Forget not that you were a ruling Queen before your powers were taken by another. Spread the teachings and the wisdom of the Faithful among your people when your husband’s back is turned. Keep your words true even as your voice quivers with your own fear. But most of all, no matter how dark the road may get, have faith, my queen.”

*

Ar-Pharazôn brought a prisoner from the east, and upon gazing at the one they called Sauron, Tar-Míriel could taste the ash that would become the remains of her beloved land, and the dread only grew in the years following Sauron’s entrance into Númenor. There were warnings from the Valar, large clouds of eagles flying overhead, for which Tar-Míriel took as sign that they as a people were not neglected, but she feared the anger of the gods all the same. But Isilriën reminded her constantly to keep faith, her lips brushing the tears slipping down Tar-Míriel’s cheeks before catching her lips in a gentle kiss, warm breath alleviating the cold within.

And so Tar-Míriel ruled in secret, and beside the tombs held meetings with those Isilriën confirmed to be of the Faithful; and though they lived under threat and fear, they were strong united. Her words to invoke strength and hope were heard only by the Faithful and the deceased. 

“Think they enjoyed my speech today?” Tar-Míriel asked Isilriën later, indicating to the tombs. 

“I am certain they were proud,” Isilriën said. “Your father, especially.” 

“I must confess, if they can hear us right now, I hope is all they can do. I dread to see those eyes suddenly flutter open.” 

Isilriën laughed despite herself. “We spend so much of our lives fearing death and mourning our loved ones, and yet we also dread to see the dead return! No wonder the gods are frustrated with us!” 

Tar-Míriel shared in her laugh, the first time in a while. “That is a strange thought when you think on it!”

*

Nimloth was slain, and in the heart of the city, a large temple was erected in the worship of Melkor, its glaring golden walls a sore sight when looking west.

It became impossible to visit the tombs, and what of the Faithful remained were escaping to Rómenna. Those who stayed in the city ran the risk of getting sacrificed in the temple to break Melkor out of his prison. 

It came to pass one day when, noticing that Isilriën was nowhere in her usual spots, Tar-Míriel’s heart dropped at the possibility and ran towards the temple. Sure enough, her loyal friend and serving woman was kneeling, arms chained behind her back, as the dark prayers issued out of Sauron’s lips like coiled snakes and venom. 

It was by some miracle Tar-Míriel managed to free Isilriën. 

“She is my serving-woman, and bears no loyalty to Amandil! Nilûphel is her name, and I beg you to free her!” 

A shadowed smile flickered across Ar-Pharazôn’s face - not of sympathy, but a sort of sick mockery, Tar-Míriel realized, as though he understood the true nature of their relationship - and after a nod, Isilriën was relieved of her binds. Grabbing her arm, Tar-Míriel pulled her far from the temple before Ar-Pharazôn could change his mind. 

“You must escape out of here as quickly as you can,” Tar-Míriel said as they passed alley after alley, protected by the long dark shadows cast upon them. “If to Rómenna you must go, then go. It is no longer safe for you here, I’m afraid.” 

“I will not abandon my queen,” Isilriën said. “But I have acquired the information I needed to report to Amandil. The Great Armament is near completion. Soon Ar-Pharazôn will set to Aman to contend with the gods.” 

“What are Amandil’s orders, then? Burn the ships?” 

“Too many guards, and the followers of Sauron grow ever greater. It would not work.” 

It was her turn to lead Tar-Míriel through the shadows, her eyes scanning the tall apartments above. She found a deserted spot behind a burned house and led Tar-Míriel to it. 

“We are setting sail for Aman before he can,” she explained in a voice so quiet even Tar-Míriel could barely hear her. 

“To seek aid from…” Tar-Míriel’s eyes finished the sentence for her. Hope and dread filled her heart. “Let me travel with you!” 

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Isilriën said, again in an all too-quiet voice. “He is to take only three of his servants. But there is hope yet for you here, my lady. Continue being the voice of reason and support for the secretly Faithful, and tame the hearts of those seduced by Sauron’s words. Have faith. This will end with our victory.” 

“But for how much longer can I hold on to my faith?” Tar-Míriel wondered.

*

Isilriën had gone, the ship bearing her and Amandil having gone east before secretly turning west, as was their plan according to Isilriën. For the next few years Tar-Míriel treaded cautiously. To the Faithful she could find she encouraged them all to escape to Rómenna, but she could do little to help those who were allied only to Sauron. Faithful or not, more were sacrificed in the name of Melkor. The signs from the gods came more frequently but took smaller forms: ill-shaped dregs at the bottom of her teacup, a wilted plant’s stems curled to spell out ill words, a dead bird on the porch with eyes wide with terror.

Only once she sought to change her husband’s heart in seeking Aman, only to regret it not long after. She spoke nothing else when he took sail with his men, the tall terrible shadow of Sauron still hovering over the land. She watched her husband leave with toxic bitterness flowing in her veins before stopping herself, the advice of Isilriën returning to her. 

“It seems I cannot hold on much longer,” she thought.

*

Their punishment came as heavy rain and the jaws of the ocean opening wide, swallowing more and more of the land with each bite. Neither Amandil nor Ar-Pharazôn had returned, and Tar-Míriel could only guess what must have taken place, if she bothered to think at all of their fates, for the destruction in front of her and her own fate were all that occupied her worries now.

She ran past the temple, its fire still blazing with each quick sacrifice, but her eyes were set on Meneltarma. More and more land disappeared before her eyes, swallowed by the ever-growing great mouth of the ocean, but she sped as fast as she could. She was just at the gates of the necropolis when a massive wave suddenly crashed behind her, forcing her inside and past rows of tombs. She landed roughly against a tomb, and behind the glass was the face of her late father. 

She would have screamed, “No!” had the water allowed her to move at all. Pressed against the tombs, she realized she would drown here, her only company the dead, and something in the thought of her end being here stirred a panic. Looking up she could see one side was the wall of the Meneltarma. When the tombs had been built around the base, no stone wall separated the tombs from the mountain, and Tar-Míriel was just barely able to beat against the pressure of the water and touch the wall, having finally reached Meneltarma, though she could not climb it. 

_Deliver me, oh Lord!_ , she begged. Another sudden wave crashed through the doors, pinning her against the wall just as the ground shook beneath her. Having sensed defeat, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall of the mountain. 

A moment later she realized just how quiet the world about her was, and a strange calm swept over her. 

_Is that what the dead hear?_ she caught herself wondering. 

Perhaps it was that she could no longer breathe, but that no longer alarmed her. She no longer held onto the wall for dear life but as if she was embracing it, and with that, embracing Ilúvatar. 

_If this is my death, then I am ready_ , she thought, slipping into darkness and thus unaware as the roof of the tombs ripped open.

*

She awoke from the gentle kiss on her lips, a warm embrace, and a hand tugging a stray strand of hair away from her face. A bright illuminating noon sun greeted her far above, its rays as welcoming a sight as Isilriën’s smile.

“You’ve been asleep for a while, my queen,” she said kindly. “I was beginning to worry.” 

Tar-Míriel touched her own hair, noting its dryness. “But, how? I was trapped in the tombs.” 

“That I can only guess,” Isilriën said. “But we found you floating just above the surface of the ocean.” 

“Were there other survivors?” 

“We’re still searching now, but there have been others we were able to save.” 

“So you went to the West, then?” Tar-Míriel said. “You spoke with the gods?” 

Isilriën smiled. “Stay. I will get you some broth and bread.” 

“No, it is fine. I can get up on my own.” She gingerly got to her feet, delighting in the touch of warm ground under her bare foot, Isilriën holding on to her hand. Noting the sweet floral scent in the air and the distant songs sung by fair voices, Tar-Míriel took another look - a closer look - and her suspicion grew. 

“Isilriën,” Tar-Míriel said in disbelief, turning to the smiling woman. “Are we in Valinor?”


End file.
